To the Wind

By Sam Toney

Perplexing bedlam’s oft a frequent end

To choices deemed the fault of teeming rage.

Yet tis our fate to war without a mend,

Like August leaves upon a tragic stage

That tear themselves unto a blustering wind;

A wind the welkin doth control to rein

And wrest the fiercely crashing, cresting waves

That, wrought into the sky, cascade down rain,

Yet, just to mist and sprinkle earthly graves.

And gales in passion do, in choices mad,

Doth spin and circle in blind lunacy

To rend the Earth. And yet the wind so clad

In death and dirt falls down so uselessly.

Tis not the fault of man to choose in rue,

For God's own voice pure madness doth pursue.